Mycroft's nightmares were worse leading up to the trial. He would wake up screaming, his sheets drenched in sweat. It seemed that in his dreams, he was discovering memories he hadn't known he'd had. He got younger and younger in his dreams, until he was remembering things that happened when he was a toddler. But worse than memories of beatings and all the other things that were done in that house, he remembered happy things. Moments where there was no shouting, no hurting, no looks promising future punishment. Sometimes even whole days where Mummy, Daddy and Mycroft would go to museums or to the park or into London, just for the sake of it. Just to have fun. And Mycroft would sat proudly astride his father's shoulders, Rasul keeping a firm grasp on his three year old son's legs, while the family enjoyed spending time together. When Mummy and Daddy had loved each other, and he would come home with flowers, sweeping her off her feet in an embrace, spinning her around and kissing her as she laughed.
Mycroft had forgotten that they had been happy, once. Changes had come slowly, so slowly that the tiny boy hadn't even realised. One minute he was Daddy's special boy. The next he was bad. One minute Mummy was sweet and happy, the next she was cold and distant. By a few weeks after Mycroft's fourth birthday, the house had changed. And so had Mycroft. Then Sherlock had come along, with his bubbly smile, his puzzled expression and his small, chubby hands. And he had been the last straw. After Sherlock was born, Daddy was gone. He’d been replaced by Father. And Father had no mercy and no love for his oldest son. Mummy had simply faded away until she was little more than a glass of wine and a tube of bright red lipstick. She stopped taking her medications and her depressions got deeper, her manic phases got higher. The depressions slowly overtook until she just sat, in her room, reapplying layer after layer of lipstick as if preparing to go out. Night after night he dreamt, until he was afraid to fall asleep.